


good things don't happen to heroes

by Marianne_Dashwood



Series: the hope that you provide [4]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, Alternate Universe - Minecraft, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Enchantments, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control, Revolution, Torture, Unethical Experimentation, ah it is once again time for me to fuck about with minecraft lore, have fun folks!, it's there but it's within canon-typical means?, they/them Lindsay Jones, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29047656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood/pseuds/Marianne_Dashwood
Summary: He didn’t have to fight, Geoff had told him. He wouldn’t force people to fight; he wasn’t the person they were fighting against. Gavin looked at Geoff and saw a father, and he had never been one to let his family fight for him. Michael looked past him, at the people who could not, would not fight, people who needed protection, or people like Gavin, who had never held a sword before one was forced into his hand.That’s why there was Mogar, the warrior, the hero, the one in the ballards, because Michael himself, Michael alone, just wasn't enough.
Relationships: Lindsay Tuggey Jones/Michael Jones, Michael Jones & Fiona Nova
Series: the hope that you provide [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105376
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	good things don't happen to heroes

**Author's Note:**

> lmao this took so much longer to write than I expected it too and it's so much longer as well! this one was only supposed to be short but.... plot happened. damnit. Anyway! dsmp fans, enjoy the cameos from some of (my) fave characters, and uh, if you are just a dsmp fan who stumbled into this accidently because of SBI has no idea who AH is, stick around anyway? Please?? i promise, if you enjoy dsmp, you'll like this! 
> 
> And in the same vein, because my desperate shilling isn't quite done yet, please leave a kudos or comment if u enjoyed, and come say hi over on twitter (@MJDashwood) or on tumblr (marianne-dash-wood.tumblr.com)!!
> 
> Enjoy!

Michael hates the stealthy missions. He isn’t a stealthy person, he’s never had volume control even when he isn’t trying to be quiet, and he works best in the midst of a chaotic and noisy battle. 

It’s worse when he’s on a stealth mission with  _ Fiona.  _ She’s deadly serious when she wants to be, but she is also all talk and bravado, and challenges her friends as easy as breathing. 

It is even worse than that, because Fiona has been stuck in hiding for weeks now, and her brother is currently working as a spy and if she doesn’t keep talking Michael thinks she might actually burst. 

He can see the worry in every word that she says, though, her tongue as sharp as her blade, and here is a girl who was a princess, who was a soldier, who was a thief. 

Gavin and Michael, sure, they had been young when they had been recruited into the Kingdom War, Michael sick of the destruction of the forests that he had called home, and Gavin, picked up off the battlefield after the latest conscription had caught up with him, just 15. They clicked instantly, the gunpowder in Gavin’s veins from his creeper heritage being the perfect spark to Michael’s own chaos. 

He didn’t have to fight, Geoff had told him, told both of them. He wouldn’t force people to fight; he wasn’t the person they were fighting against. Gavin looked at Geoff and saw a father, and he had never been one to let his family fight for him. Michael looked past him, at the people who could not, would not fight, people who needed protection, or people like Gavin, who had never held a sword before one was forced into his hand. 

They grew up in war, the two of them, and they say that war forges bonds that could never happen in peacetime, and Michael knew tales of brothers-in-arms becoming strangers once the clamouring of battle had stopped, but this was different. This was family. 

But if there was one thing he had learned was that Michael, alone, wasn’t enough. That’s why there was Mogar, the warrior, the hero, the one in the ballards, the one who Michael was able to shake off at the end of the day, because being a figurehead was hard work, and sometimes he just wanted to have a drink with his friends. 

Unfortunately, it was that exact reason that he had been sent here today. Fiona, despite her intimate knowledge of the sewer system in Achievement City, had been collecting far too many people. Anyone the tyrant sought out, anyone that may be punished by his harsh laws, Fiona took all that she could, and she hid them where the tyrant could not find them. Traitors, innocents, anyone just trying to survive. Lately, it was a lot of moblings, people who, like Gavin, had the traces of the mobs in their blood. People could be cruel, and it’s easier to hunt those whose heritage gives them the same rewards in death but lack the same level of protection. 

They had found her towards the end of the war, a soldier and a thief and somehow still smiling, carried by the weightlessness of youth, or at least that is what it seemed at first. There’s a stone in her heart, a sharpness in her gaze, history etched into reflexes that are far too honed to simply be practiced. And yet. And yet, Fiona smiles. She is kind where others are cruel, and loves so deeply and fiercely and with a heart so open it is a wonder how she has survived. 

Michael knows, in the same way that he is trying, every single day after the end of the war, that she is choosing to be kind, because she knows what it is like to be cruel. 

Sure, she can be cruel. She bullies Matt and Gavin, but they give back as good as they’ve got, and it’s never malice, never hatred, even when it’s 10am, and she’s told Gavin that she hates him twice. It’s fond, jabs placed where they know it doesn’t hurt much, and it’s healing, it shows them how to live in peace when all they have ever known is war. 

And in return, they open their family to her. Gavin has always been Geoff’s kid, but Fiona is Jack’s, and she and Gavin bicker and squabble like they came out of the womb together, despite the years of difference between them. If Michael, hypothetically, had been jealous, it barely lasted a day, before they pulled him into their shenanigans, and just like that, Michael had a little sister as well. 

And now his little sister might get them killed if she doesn’t  _ shut the fuck up _ . 

He clamps a hand over her mouth as they hit a corner, and a patrol walks past. Fiona bites his hand as soon as they move out of sight and he swears, biting down to make sure it isn’t a yell. 

“You-!”

“Michael, seriously. I do this every night. Don’t be so fucking jumpy, okay?”

“I’m sorry if I don’t want us to get arrested!”

“Ah!” Fiona says, pulling him over to where there is an entrance to her underground, concealed by barrels and boxes from the nearby inn, “Here, Mikey, come on!”

He has no choice to follow her, but even if he did, he would choose her. Fuck, he wishes she had won. 

The tunnels under the city are dark, but Fiona moves through them the same way she moved through a crowded market place, through the intricacies of court; that is, graceful, careful, with a sixth sense. It takes about twenty minutes, but eventually the tunnel opens up, and there-

Oh, they had no idea it had gotten this big. There’s possibly over a hundred people here; sullen men hunched in corners, muttering darkly, parents holding their children close, women who have lost everything except the fire in their eyes, and children-

Children who have been through a war, children who have already had to get used to cruelty, children who were raised with the ideals of fairness and righteousness and justice, the ideals that Geoff and Jack and all of them worked so hard to create. Gods, there are so many  _ children _ . Perhaps their parents have already been arrested, perhaps the kids themselves turned to rule-breaking in order to survive this changed world. There’s a lot of mobling kids too, and there’s that fear in his heart again, a fear that only appears when he’s worried about Gavin, and a fear that he would never admit. Creeper-kind mix with their fully human peers, and Michael sees their bright green eyes and prays that for once in his life, Gavin is being sensible.

At least it seems that the tyrant's latest reign of terror hasn’t turned these people against each other. Blaze children are keeping the fires going, there’s even a few Ender hybrids helping to move the tougher and heavier materials around, even when they have to stoop to fit with the low sewer ceiling. 

Still, out of all of this, Michael cannot help but wonder; how the hell are they supposed to get this many people out of the city?

There are a few muted shouts as they both enter, first for Fiona, because she will always be their princess, and then they recognise Michael, and there are a few gasps and whispered muttering. 

The word  _ Mogar  _ is passed around the room like hot potatoes. 

“Does this mean we’re fighting?” A kid, no older than 16 stands, and his voice echoes through the room, “You’re fucking here, we’re fighting back now, yeah?”

There’s fear, tangible, anticipatory, as if they are waiting for this warrior to demand that every person, man, woman, mobling, child, pick up a sword and reclaim their kingdom. But there’s determination there, steady as the dawn, and hope, and it churns Michael’s stomach in more ways than one as he shakes his head. 

“No,” He says, and makes sure his voice carries over the sounds of surprise, outrage and relief, “Not today. We’re getting you out of here first.”

“And what’s the point in that?” The kid shouts out again, ignoring the tugging on his shirt from an older boy behind him who has got to be his brother, who looks vaguely familiar in a way that Michael doesn’t have time to parse right now, “We’ll only have to get back in to take the fight to him!”

“Do you see an army here, kid?” Michael asks, and does not wait for an answer, “I don’t. I see people who need protection, our protection. An army only comes after those who don’t want to fight are safe. You might want to fight, and believe me, I understand that hunger, but not at the cost of everyone here,” He turns away, to address the group as a whole, catching Fiona’s approving eye, “We’ve got a way out, but I’ll be honest, we didn’t expect such a big group. We’ll be prioritizing the kids first; we’ve got people on the other side of the city walls ready with relief, supplies and food, and ready to lead you back to where the Kings are. From there, we have an arrangement with Rooster City, and you have a choice; anyone who wants to leave, find peace until we take back our home, you are welcome too. But that is a choice that can be made when we get out of here,” Michael says, because he can see some of the kids gripping their wooden weapons, rough hewn and tied together with scraps of rope and a prayer, “Because right now, there’s streets full of guards between us and safety.”

He continues, outlining what had already been agreed - Kids in the centre of the pack, fighters on the outside. Families and non-combatants are the priority, and Michael doesn’t hesitate to add, “If I see any of you sons of bitches try and push past a child to get out, I won’t hesitate to kill you myself.”

It seems like no time at all between this and watching as this group of refugees finish gathering up the last of their belongings. He sees the kid that shouted out standing side by side with another kid in a green jumper that barely looks any older, both of them clutching makeshift swords and trying to situate themselves on the outside of the crowd, with the other fighters. 

“Sorry about my brother,” Someone says behind him, and yeah, it’s the older kid, and it appears he was right. Well, Michael says older, but he can’t be much older, even with the exhaustion under his eyes and the stress weighing down his shoulders. Ragged brown coat and a guitar slung over his back, and something clicks in Michaels head; he knows this kid. He used to busk in the market square, except he didn’t look so tired and world-weary, just the tiredness from the hurricanes that were his siblings. How many of the people here were like that, were regular faces in Michael’s cosy happy ending, until they ended up here, broken down and battered, or hung outside the palace walls? Lindsay always had a better eye for these things, and was certainly better to handle kids who had grown up too quickly. 

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Michael replies, “I was just the same when I was his age. Let’s just focus on getting everyone the hell out of here, okay?”

He nods, “He just thinks that he can be just like our older brother, that he can fight and be totally fine, and he doesn’t even think about what could happen to him. Him and our dad got caught outside of the city; they’re fine, they’re waiting for us, but then that  _ stupid  _ gremlin child got caught stealing some food and well, now we’re here, and I’m not my dad and I have no idea how to stop him.”

Oh, Michael was so unprepared for this. What do you even say to kids? Let alone kids unloading their tragic backstory to you?

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” And oh no, that was the worst thing to say because how is he supposed to keep an eye on one hot-shot kid when he has the rest of them to watch out for, but it’s too late, because the relief in the kids eyes is almost too much for him to bear, “You’re gonna get out of here, and you’re gonna find your dad, alright? He’s gonna be fine.”

The kid opens his mouth to reply, but Michael just puts a hand on his shoulder, and with a confidence that he doesn’t exactly feel at the moment says, “Get back to your brothers, stay close to them, no need to thank me.”

The boy nods, and Michael raises his voice to be heard over the muttering of the crowd, “Alright! In formation, protect those in the middle, don’t be idiots. Keep quiet, and keep moving.”

Fiona leads the group and only footsteps echo, the occasional sound of a baby’s fussing breaking the held breath that is that long walk in the dark. 

Michael keeps to the rear, and he cannot help but feel that this is the easy part of the escape. Fiona is going to get them as close to the break in the wall as possible, but there are still streets between them. They might get lucky, and Jeremy might be there to keep the other guards away. 

Michael should have known that they wouldn’t get that lucky.

He isn’t even out of that shitty shitty sewer (no pun intended) when he hears the commotion, hears Fiona, and he’s running before he even registers he’s doing it. He’s calling too, abandoning stealth in order to get people moving, because if they’ve been discovered then they need to just get as many people out as possible. 

A guardsman swipes at him the moment he is out in the night air, and he doesn’t even think before burying his sword into the man’s neck. He turns away before the man falls, unwilling to see whether this was a man he had trained, a man who had kept him and his family safe. 

“Keep going!” He shouts, kicking down another who came for him and the woman behind him, and she thanks him in a breath before pulling her babe close to her chest and running for the exit. It’s a stampede now, but he recognises with warm pride the fact that there are still people fighting, the formation is holding, and there, there is the break in the wall, there is Fiona, helping people through. It’s barely big enough for three people to fit though at a time. Michael knows it’s now his job to keep the bottle neck as clear as he can. 

It’s not a battle, it’s not even really a skirmish; it’s a fight, desperate and bloody and Micheal might just be cutting down men and women that he trained to fight and that thought hurts more than any of the superficial injuries he receives.

He moves like a storm, from one point to another, always just in time, always dreading the time he’s too late. He stops a guard from cutting down a fox hybrid, who yelps and scrambles to his feet before Michael is gone again, jumping in front of a blow to a father and son that would have knocked anyone else down, but he merely loses his breath for a second before kicking the guardsman to the ground and putting his sword through their chest. Mogar is out to play, and not a single guard comes to him alone, and so he has to seek out those he should protect. 

There is a cry from Fiona. It isn’t pain, but there is still loss and desperation and utter anguish. 

Michael turns, and screams, “FIFI!”

Fiona is staggering under the weight of an iron cast gate, an iron cast gate that is forcibly pushing its way downwards, across their only escape. They hadn’t noticed it, hadn’t foreseen the trap that had been set for them. If it goes down, maybe they’ll be able to get the kids through the gaps, but certainly not any adults, and certainly not Michael or Fiona. 

He looks around wildly for the mechanism that set it off, but he sees only the rope trailing in the breeze. It’s been cut. There’s no stopping its fall now. With Fiona there are others, trying to keep the gate up, as the crowd becomes frantic, tries to push forward with the rest of the mass of terrified people to  _ just get out _ . 

And the gate is still falling. They can’t hold it up without blocking off the entrance and Fiona is strong but she’s not strong enough to keep it up for as long as they need. 

They need to go, and they need to go  _ now _ . 

“To the gate!” Michael shouts, and he pulls up an ender-child who is shaking on the ground, stooped low because he’s so much taller than everyone else, even though his face betrays the fact that he’s barely out of his teens. There are tear track scars down his cheeks, and the expression on both the ender and human sides of his face is one of sheer terror. Thankfully, he doesn’t flinch away from Michael putting his sword through a guardsman, and Michael can only hope that the kid won’t remember this as he shoves him though the gate. 

There’s something approximating a line now, Fiona shouting orders even as her voice strains with the weight on top of her, and thank god, they listen to their princess as she tries to get through as many non-combatants as possible. If he strains, Michael can make out shouts from the otherside, but they’re shouts of relief, calls of aid, and he knows that’s where Lindsay and the relief teams are. There is a shout; wordless, though it might have been a name and beside him that kid from earlier is running, sword outstretched as his brother fruitlessly reaches for him, and fuck, Michael reaches out-

Dread pools, and he hears the familiar whipcrack noise of a crossbow, and Fiona  _ screams _ . 

There’s a rush of sound, “The princess!”, “Hold the gate, hold it!”, and Fiona drops to her knees, an arrow buried in her shoulder, and the gate…

The gate begins to fall. 

He doesn’t think. He grabs the kid by the scruff of the neck, and drags him towards the gate, to where the space to escape is getting smaller and smaller by the minute, and even though the kid is gangly he won’t fit through the bars. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the elder, desperately trying to do the same with his other younger sibling, and Michael doesn’t have time, so he just pushes forward with all his strength, and-

There is a heavy jolt, and dust sprays into his eyes, but his hands are empty and when he reaches blindly forward, there are metal bars in front of him. The gate fell. Fiona is on his right, gritting her teeth through the pain, but she’s applying pressure to the wound on her shoulder and she gives him a ragged thumbs up. Oh his left, he realises with despair, is the oldest brother, his brown coat torn, his guitar still on his back, but despite the obvious fear in his eyes his face is shaped in relief, and Michael knows why. 

On the other side of the gate, along with a large portion of the original crowd that they had set off with, are his brothers. The one Michael grabbed, the one who doesn’t ever shut up apparently, is shouting and swearing up a blue streak, demanding to fight, demanding to help even as he bangs fruitlessly against the gate. 

“Kid,” Michael says, and when he doesn’t stop shouting, he grabs the boy's hand through the bars, holds them tight as they shake, “Kiddo, listen. You’re out, but there are still people inside,”

“Wil,” The boy starts, and yeah, he’s not shaking with rage or anger or a desire to fight, he’s terrified because his brother is on the other side.

“I’m gonna get your brother out,” Michael says, and when did he start making promises he couldn’t be sure to keep? But he’s said it now, and so he continues as if he meant to all along, “But I need you to help me get as many people through the gaps as possible. Can you do that?”

As if to accentuate his point, someone passes him a waddle of clothes and he realises that it is an infant, face screwed up from crying, and behind him he knows there are still kids and toddlers and babies and all of them still have a chance if they can pull this off.

The kid in front of him takes the baby with wide eyes, glancing from Michael to his brother, before an older girl, with purple hair that reminds him, like a stab in the heart, of Lindsay, takes the child and carries them over to the relief teams.

The boy looks at him, fear and panic and determination rolled into a look that should never be on a kids face, and says, “Of course I can do that, I can do anything!”

Another child, a toddler this time, is shoved into his arms, and he helps pass them through the bars to the kids on the other side, not bothering to respond to the kids statement other than with a quick smile. Michael is stuck in the midst of the crowd, and people are passing him their most precious things, and the sound of fighting is closing in. But the older brother, Wil, on his left, is copying his movements, is passing through children to his younger brothers with reassuring words, and so Michael continues, glancing over to Fiona every so often, watching as she is helped to bandage up her wound as best as she can. 

Michael loses count of the amount of children he passes through the bars, how many children he has to pull from their parents arms even as they scream and howl in protest, as their parents weep with overwhelmed tears.

The sounds of battle go quiet as he passes though the last child, a small blaze baby with hair like embers and a warmth like a hot coal in his arms. Behind him, there are only a few dozen people; the rest are lying on the ground, innocents and guardsmen alike. It’s quiet, and Michael knows it won’t be for long. 

“We need to split up,” Michael says, moving to Fiona as she stands, wincing from the pain, “Can you take any of the walking wounded here to the twins? They’ll be able to heal them up and get out a smaller group of people. I can take care of the rest.”

Fiona nods, and soon, those who are limping, or holding ragged bandages to their body are collected around her, and she sets off with a press to Michael’s shoulder and a whispered, “If you die tonight, asshole, I’m gonna kill you myself.”

At the gate, the boy is reaching for his brother, “Wil, wait, Wil,  _ Wil _ ,”

His brother slips off the instrument, sliding it carefully through the bars of the gate, “Take care of this for me, okay?”

“No,” The boy says, holding onto the guitar for dear life, his friend in the green pale and clutching on to the other, “No, don’t you dare, don’t you dare do this,”

“Just for a little while,” Wil says, and turns to Michael, “Just until we get out, right?”

“Sure,” Michael says, “I told you I was gonna get you out, and I am.”

Wil squeezes his brother's hand one last time, “Take care of each other until I get back. I don’t want to get grounded because you got up to some stupid shit.”

There’s a shout from the small crowd, and Michael knows that more guards are going to be on their way anytime now. 

“We have to go, kid,” Michael says, taking hold of Wil’s shoulder, “And you two need to go to find the others. Look for purple hair, name of Lindsay, and tell them Michael sent you. They’ll keep you safe until your brother gets back.”

There’s a louder shout, and Michael pulls out his sword once more, and hates that he has to pull the brothers apart. He has to speak louder to be heard by the half-dozen people that are remaining. 

“Stay close to me, I know another way, do your best not to give away our position.”

He picks up a sword from a fallen guard, and throws it to the musician. 

“Can you fight?”

“M- My brother taught me.”

“Good,” Michael says, “We might need it.”

Weapons drawn, the group skirt the side streets next to the wall, following Michael’s lead. They narrowly miss a couple of patrols, the guards running to the site of their escape. Gods, he wishes he had a way to contact Jeremy right now, but both he and Matt had been MIA for a while, and if the king was to discover their sympathies, then it wouldn’t be nice for either of them. 

Wil follows at his heels, the youngest of the group still trying to play at being an adult. That is, until he grabs his arm, and hisses, “What the hell are you doing? We’re heading straight towards the palace!”

“I know where I’m going, kiddo,” Michael says, “I promise, it's a way out.”

“Then why didn’t we go there before?” Another man asks.

“Because it’s the palace,” Michael says, rolling his eyes, “With a group like this we might sneak through, but over a hundred people, with kids, are going to be a little conspicuous!”

The protests die down, but Michael can feel the tension behind him, and quickens his pace. 

The team nice dynamite tunnel was a joke, or had started as one. They had been building the castle, and they both had quickly realised that they were not wholly suited to city life. Michael had grown up in the woods, and Gavin’s creeper heritage combined meant that they really needed to be able to get out to the forest, and get out quickly. Michael didn’t know if Gavin would have told the king about the tunnel in an effort to show his loyalty, but in the best case scenario, the only people in the palace that knew about this exit would be the ones that are loyal to him. 

Unfortunately, he hasn’t been very lucky so far, but when he helps the last woman over the fence to the palace gardens, there doesn’t appear to be anyone about. He doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief yet, though, leading them through the familiar bushes and flowers of the place that had once been his home. Every step brought back memories of much happier times; snowball fights with the lads, thinking that Lindsay was about to be romantic in the garden before they flung mud into his face. 

It wasn’t long until the group, starting to shiver in the cold night air as their adrenaline ran out, reached the vine covered entrance to the tunnel. 

Michael ushers Wil, now at the back of the group, inside, and predictably, that is when Murphy’s law decides to rear its ugly head. He doesn’t know how they were spotted, or if they had been waiting until they were all corralled inside the tunnel to strike, but he hears shouts and the clanking of approaching footsteps.

“Run,” He says, pushing the boy onwards, abandoning all attempts at stealth, “Run!”

The way out is ahead. He knows this. But he also knows that these people are tired, and they were tired long before he arrived. These guards, captained by Jeremy or not, hadn’t just been in a fight, and hadn’t been running for their lives either. 

The way out is ahead. But they won’t make it. He can see it in each of the people ahead of him, in the boy right in front of him. Wil spares a terrified glance behind him, and in that moment, the boy trips and stumbles, falling face first into the rough cobblestone of the tunnel. Michael nearly trips over him as well, only just keeping his balance. 

Even as he drags the boy up, pulling him along, he can feel the exhaustion in the way Wil’s legs drag behind him, the ragged breaths pulled from his chest. The sound of their pursuers is getting ever closer, and the look on Wil’s face is inching ever closer to despair.

“Wil, you remember what I told your brother?” Michael asks, still sprinting even as he pulls out his sword, a plan forming in his mind.

“Which part?” Wil replies, gasping out the words, looking so much like Gavin in that moment, a windmill of arms and legs as he runs, far too thin. 

“The part where I told you who to look for out there.”

“L-Lindsay, right?” Wil pants. 

“That’s the one,” Michael says, and with a force of effort, he uses the momentum of his own movement to propel the boy forward, before planting his own weight directly still, sword out, holding his ground. 

“Mogar!” He shouts, but Michael just shakes his head. 

“I’ll keep them off your back, go! I’ll find another way out!”

He can feel the boy, torn, as he sways between staying and leaving, even as the shouts get closer and his window of escape gets smaller. 

“Get out of here!” Michael yells, “Find Lindsay, find your family! I’m telling you, go!”

There’s the sounds of a scuffle, and he hopes to god one of the others grabbed him and made him run, and the footsteps behind him fade and finally, finally, Michael breathes a sigh of relief. 

No one to protect, just him, just him verses a whole group of guards. Just like old times. 

He takes a deep breath, and charges forward, back towards the city, and everything is crimson and pain, and darkness. 

* * *

When he blinks open his eyes, everything is tinged in shades of grey. It takes a moment for his brain to start working again and recognise the common side effects of a slowness potion. His limbs are heavy, and he can’t quite move them yet, so all he has to do is lie back and wait until -

No. That’s not it. His arms and legs are heavy, but he can move them; he can feel his fingers curling into fists at his command, but they won’t rise, he can’t get his arms to lift, and that’s because…

It’s because of the straps around his wrists, the restraints on his legs and across his chest. He’s not lying on the uncomfortable and poorly constructed bed back at the mineshaft, it’s harder, colder. Solid, and no matter how hard he pulls, he can’t break it. Obsidian?

The aftereffects of the potion make it difficult to see the room around him, but he can just vaguely make out… books? Another table is set up a little further away, a potion stand placed on top with small purple bubbles floating out and into the room. 

Right, so. Tied to an obsidian table? Check. Definitely in some kind of evil laboratory? Check. Almost certainly captured by the tyrant king? Check. 

He’s trying not to panic, because Mogar doesn’t panic, but Michael definitely does, and he never enjoyed being tied up or trapped, always preferred the open spaces of the world, and, okay, he’s panicking now. 

He closes his eyes against the tide welling up inside him, and forces himself to take deliberate deep breaths. Panic won’t get him anywhere. He needs to escape, or at the very least, last until his family comes for him. If the tyrant king has him, then Gavin knows, and will be able to pass on the word. 

They’ll come for him. He just has to hold on until then. He’s Mogar, for fucks sake, anything that this fuck can do to him can’t be any worse than what he’s already been through. Michael knows he can take pain. It’ll hurt, but they’ll get him out soon enough, and he’ll be fine. 

He’ll be fine. Right?

“Ah. I was wondering when you would wake up. It’s impolite to keep your host waiting, you know.”

The voice is smooth, calm in all the ways Michael isn’t right now. It sends shivers down his spine, the same tone at his banishment echoing though his mind. He bites down on his lip, swallows the “let me go,” that would almost certainly end up being a plea rather than the threat that Michael wants it to be. 

“What do you even want from me, you sack of shit?” Michael says instead, hoping that he sounds threatening even when tied to a table, “You can’t be stupid enough to think I’ll tell you anything.”

“Come now,” The tyrant says, and he steps into the dim light of the room. His face is cold, like a statue as it smiles in a taunt, “is that anyway to talk to your king?”

“You’re not my king,” Michael spits, rage overwhelming the panic, but even with Mogar, filled with fury in front of him, the King doesn’t flinch. 

“I won fair and square,” He says, “I beat you, I beat the so-called people’s champion,  _ and then _ I beat your prissy little princess. Like it wasn’t even difficult. Like she was as weak as everyone thought she was.”

Michael, who had actually been there to watch as his surrogate younger sister lost by possibly the narrowest margin, and only because the man in front of him had pulled off a dirty trick, snarls.

“She’s a thousand times stronger than you’ll ever be!” 

“Then why do I know that she didn’t make it out tonight?”

A flash of fear hits Michael, punches deep. Fiona had to have gotten out, she would have found Trevor and Alfredo, she was smart. She couldn’t be gone. 

“Fuck you,” Michael says, before his head snaps back, leaving his world spinning. The back of his head hurts, and his cheek stings, and the king in front of him is breathing hard, though he appears to be trying to control it. 

“That was just the start,” He warns, but Michael grins, baring his teeth. 

“I’m not afraid of pain,” He says, even though he can taste blood in his mouth from the hit. Finally, he can take this. He doesn’t do well with people trying to rile him up, he’ll snap and get himself hurt like he just did. Pain though, he can stomach, and even with the panic, he keeps grinning. 

His smile falters, ever so slightly, as he sees the stone smile on the king’s face twist, a spark light up deep in his eyes. Malice, or madness, Michael couldn’t tell. 

“I’m counting on it,” the king says, and Michael begins to feel very, very afraid. He schools his expression into familiar anger, and he waits. 

“You know, I wouldn’t be able to have done any of this if it wasn’t for your little friends,” the king says, finally, when Michael doesn’t give him the satisfaction of punishing him for his remarks again, “Your precious champion, the moment I threatened his safety, his so called brother almost tripped over himself trying to help me. You can thank him for all of this, once he’s recovered, of course.” 

Okay, so Matt and Jeremy weren’t dead, that’s good to know. Unfortunately, from the sound of it, it doesn’t look like either of them will be coming to help him.

“I would never have been able to do this if it wasn’t for his…  _ attachment _ ,” the king spits the end of his sentence like it is the worst word in the world, “It’s what lost your pretty princess the fight, it’s why you’re here right now! It’s why Free is still here, that little traitor,” He laughs then, low and mirthless at Michael’s unabashed look of horror, “Oh yes, I know exactly what he’s been doing. And I have some very special plans for the both of you.”

“If you think that threatening Gav,” Michael says, perhaps a moment too late as the shock sinks into his bones, “will be enough to make me help you, then you have no idea what you’re dealing with. Gav’s smart, he’ll know you’re onto him, you can’t use him to manipulate me.”

He tries to keep a note of triumph in his voice, and desperately, desperately tries to believe his own words. 

The king laughs again, “I could do that easily with my head scientist and his little pet. I bet if Free even knew you were down here, he would give it all up in a moment if he thought he was saving you. It’s enjoyable, watching people fall over themselves and their pride the moment their attachment is threatened, but you... I know you wouldn’t bow to something like that. No, what I have planned is far, far more fun than that,”

He bends down low, and Michael cannot help the shiver that runs down his spine, “It will be so beautiful to watch you break.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says, and there is another dizzying flash of pain as the king strikes him again. 

“You will learn,” He hisses, and for the first time, there is a thread of anger in his voice. Good. If he is angry, then he may make mistakes, “to hold your tongue.”

“Try me, asshole,” Michael says, and then pulls all the blood in his mouth and spits, watching in satisfied vengeance as it stains the king’s immaculate coat. 

“I am going to enjoy watching you tear yourself apart to save them,” the king snarls, and his anger is an ice brand burn, and Michael swallows but cannot bring himself to regret this decision. If the king wants to break him, he’s going to have to work for it, “I will watch, and I will not stop you, as you tear your family apart with your own hands. Do you understand me?”

“Can we just get to the fucking torture already, I’m sick of your fucking evil monologue,” Michael says, rolling his eyes and clenching his fists ready for another strike. 

It does not come. Instead, the king sighs, a deliberate release of breath; trying to control his rage? Preparing for an even harder hit?

“All brawn, no brains, aren’t you Mogar?” He says, instead, mild and measured and ice cold, “Well then. I shall simply have to educate you. How much do you know about the End?”

“I know that you have to keep someone tied up to get them to listen to your grotty shitty voice.”

The king continues as if Michael hadn’t spoken, “It’s a harsh place, harsher than the legends say. Oh, I know that the people of the Overworld, none of you actually believe that the End exists, not even when you have it’s descendents roaming your lands. But it does exist, I can promise you that. And I learned so, so much,”

He pulls on Michael’s chin, forces him to look up at his face, at the hollowness of his eyes, their cruelty and their malice, and the flecks of purple, glowing faintly in the darkness of the room. 

“What the fuck,” Michael says, “What the  _ fuck _ ,”

“The beast that lived there, it could control its brethren. I had hoped to do the same, albeit on a much larger scale, but such power was not made for mortal hands. Imagine it, Mogar; an army of Endermen, all under one, united command. No one could stand against me then, you wouldn’t even be here, if the universe had allowed me that one boon. Instead, we are here,” The king smiles, and the purple in his eyes grows, “We are here, Mogar. And you have the privilege of being witness to the union of two magics, something that no one in the Overworld has ever done.”

Okay, now he had completely lost Michael. Two magics? The Ender, and  _ what _ ? 

_ Fuck, what is this crazy bastard going to do to me? _

“If it wasn’t for your kings, your precious friends I wouldn’t have been able to get my hands on all of this,”

He gestures around the room, at the lined bookshelves and the rare equipment and the enchanting table, one of the very last, as Michael remembers Matt talking about and -

The enchanting table. He can’t see it. But he wouldn’t have moved it, it’s why he’s kept Matt so under his thumb. So where..?

It’s made of obsidian. The stone under him is most likely obsidian. 

Enchanting. The Ender, and  _ enchanting _ . 

The king’s smile widens as the pieces click together in Michael’s mind, even though understanding is still way out of his reach. He just hits things, he doesn’t know shit about all this! Occasionally Matt gives him a shining purple sword, but that’s it! 

The tyrant pulls out a tray, setting it on the table beside him. He can’t see much of what’s there, but there is a pile of crushed lapis peeking out over the top, and bottles filled with a purple substance that isn’t quite liquid, but not quite gas either. 

There is even a jar of ender eyes, and to Michael’s horror, they are still caked in crimson, dried and flaking, and he knows, deep in the pit of his stomach, that he didn’t get them from endermen alone. He thinks of the small ender-child back in the crowd, of the tear-track scars and the fact they were all alone. He feels sick.

“Enchanting is such a fickle thing,” The king says, bent over the tray as he carefully measures and divides… something. His back is turned to Michael, but his voice is cold and clear, “So imprecise. It’s only because of Matthew that we have been able to have some direction in it. Soon, I believe that every single one of my men will be fully equipped. Have you seen what some of those swords can do? But still, the strongest sword lies in their grasp.”

Michael glares as the man turns, shaking a bottle in his hands with care. 

“I know you like to think of yourself as a person, but the truth is that you have always been, and always will be, a weapon. A blade such as yourself should be wielded with care, not simply set loose. You need a strong hand,” A chill runs down Michael’s spine, as the tyrant leans in close, “And I am happy to provide for you,  _ my  _ sword.”

“Whatever you do to me, it won’t work,” Michael says, and for the first time, he can feel the words trembling in his throat, even as he forces them to stand steady, “Whatever magical torture you put me through, it won’t be enough. I’ll never be… be  _ yours _ .”

“Oh, my beautiful sword,” The tyrant says, “You won’t have a choice.”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Michael says, snarling as he sees the man pick up the small and viciously sharp tools from his tray, “What the fuck is that, what in the fuck are you going to do to me!”

“Really, despite the difficulty in components, it is rather simple. The beast of the end controls it’s brethren; I carry the legacy of that self-same beast, despite the limitations of a human form. However, when I combine that imperative with a very  _ specific  _ enchantment, I can finally get the results I desire.”

It hits Michael all at once; the shards of ender eye floating in a solution of crushed lapis and whatever that purple stuff was, the same shade as the glint in this tyrant’s eye. He doesn’t need the man to lean in, spill poison out of his mouth that Michael already knows. 

“Loyalty is such an interesting enchantment, don’t you think? What would loyalty do to you? Will it erase every other bond you have, or would it simply reverse your allegiances? Or... would it hollow you out and leave only a sword? I wonder, will there be anything left of you, when this is all done? Quite honestly, I’m not sure what I would prefer. The knowledge that you are aware, struggling in these bonds as your own hands kill the people you love, or blind fanaticism and love for your king, every part of you shaped into my most devoted subject.”

“You’re  _ sick _ ,” Michael spits, struggling violently against the bonds binding him to the table; he doesn’t need to bide his time anymore, he doesn’t need to save his strength, he just needs to get you, he needs to get away, he needs to run before he is leashed like a dog, “You’re a monster, you fucking asshole, you’re a fucking  _ monster _ !”

“Change a few letters, and you’ll almost have it right,” He says, as if Michael isn’t writhing and pulling, isn’t hurling insults at him, even as the king leans over and prepares the incision. He’s going to carve an enchantment into Michael’s chest, brand it into his blood and his bones and there isn’t a single thing that Michael can do. 

“I think I’ll enjoy having the mighty Mogar call me  _ Master _ ,”

Michael writhes, trying desperately to pull himself away, panic igniting every part of him even as he says, “I’ll never bow to you, I’ll never obey you, you sick fuck, I’ll never follow you! You’ll never be my king, never, never,  _ never- _ ”

The first blade touches his skin, and everything around him collapses. 

It splinters out from the knife edge, shards burrowing deep and slow into his skin. He gasps and pants and it isn’t enough, it will never be enough as agony races through him, and every shuddered breath only draws more pain in. The only coolness he can feel is the ice of the blade, burying itself in his chest, and the quiet slip of tears, involuntary as every part of him, every atom, every molecule, screams. It’s not just the pain in his chest, not just the warm blood soaking down his side; it’s every duty and bond being broken, shattered with such immense force that it is physical agony. Bindings of flame feel like they are wrapped around him and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, hurts,  _ hurts _ -

_ Lindsay _ , he thinks, or perhaps he screams out their name, he doesn’t know for sure.  _ Gavin. Jeremy, Matt. Trevor. Alfredo. Jack. Geoff. Fiona.  _ **_Lindsay_ ** _. Please. Please help me. I don’t want to forget you. Please don’t let him do this to me. Please.  _

But nobody came. 

The agony tears through his body one last time, his vision filled with the bright violet of enchantment, and Michael comes undone. 

* * *

“You will not harm me, not now nor ever,” is the first thing that Michael hears as he crawls his way back into consciousness, and he has never been happier to feel the familiar revulsion crawl over his skin. He remembers the pain of breaking, of feeling flames deep inside his mind, how he desperately held onto the memories of his family, and it seems that it hadn’t entirely worked how he had feared. He was still himself, more or less. He still hates this tyrant with every fibre of his being. 

“Sit up. I know you’re awake.”

Michael hisses in pain as his body is forced upright, the room spinning around him and all he can do is brace himself against the table. A hand grabs his chin, pulls it upwards, and the king’s face is all he can see. There is still purple deep in his iris’, and he examines Michael with a clinical eye. 

Michael stares, weighing up his options, then decides that he isn’t really a man for patience. 

He cannot hurt the man, but, as he realises with a vicious smile, as he spits his blood directly into the king’s eye, he can still fight back. 

The tyrant scowls, wiping the mess away, letting go of Michael in disgust. 

“A shame. I would have had you on your knees willingly. No matter. Knowing there will be nothing you can do to stop yourself will be a prize enough,” He leans towards Michael, and malignant malice dances in his eyes, “Now, my sword, this is exactly what we are going to do...”

A hole opens in the yawning pit of Michael’s stomach, a smile spreads across the king's face as he talks, issues his commands, and this time, Michael cannot even scream.

* * *

Lindsay watches the forest, anxiety thrumming through their veins. Michael should have been back by now, should have really been back a long time ago. They have duties in the caves, but they couldn’t remain there for much longer. Too many people, too much nervous relief, and each and every one looked at them with pity. Too many people, and yet it was too quiet without Michael’s voice, without his presence. 

They didn’t need pity. They need their husband back. 

They’re not alone on watch. A few of the kids had started to follow them around like ducklings, and once they told them what had happened, it wasn’t like they could stop them. 

So, here they are, the boys behind them asleep in one large, snoring pile, the eldest with his arms cradling his younger brothers, despite them insisting that they would wait for Michael to return as well. 

Something moves within the trees, and they are up on their feet in a moment. Others forget, everyone forgets that Lindsay is as much as a fighter as their husband ever was, forget that they were married on a battlefield rather than in the luxury of a castle. 

Then, someone stumbles out of the forest, and Lindsay is there in a moment. 

“Michael, Michael,  _ Michael _ ,” They say, a stuttered prayer on repeat, and Michael sags in their arms but he is here, he is alive, even as they pull back and see how pale he is, how exhaustion pushes his shoulders down and there is a strange pull in his eyes. They cup his face, gentle, and he leans into their touch, even as they press his forehead to theirs. 

“Lindsay,” He says, a breath, “Gods, I’m glad to see you,”

“We thought you had been  _ captured _ ,” Lindsay says, “The kids said you stayed behind.”

“I did,” Michael says, “But I got out. Nothing happened. It just took longer than I expected, that’s all.”

Lindsay pulls him into another hug, and misses the way his face crumples, the tears unshed as his mouth bites back words against his will. 

“Did Fiona get out?” He asks, his voice strained, and something there gives Lindsay pause, but they answer anyway. 

“We got word from her, she’s hiding with Trevor and Alfredo until she and her group are a little more healed up, but she’ll be here within the next day or so. You did so well, both of you, you got them out,”

They lean to the side, so that Michael can see the pile of sleeping boys behind them, and the strange look on his face clears, with honest relief replacing it. 

“Come on,” Lindsay says, tugging on his hand, “Let’s get all of you into real actual beds. The revolution can wait for a few hours. You look like shit, Michael,” they add, because they’ve never been one to mince their words. 

“Thanks,” Michael says, and to Lindsay’s relief, a smile appears briefly on his face, “I feel like shit too. Think I got knocked about a bit during the escape. Nothing serious, but it hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Alright then,” Lindsay says, as behind them the boys start to stir, and they know that only commotion and chaos can follow, “Let’s go fix you up. It’s too quiet without you in there, anyway.”


End file.
